The woman was silent, her eyes on the floor. Shimamura had come to a point where he knew he was only parading his masculine shamelessness, and yet it seemed likely enough that the woman was familiar with the failing and need not be shocked by it. He looked at her. Perhaps it was the rich lashes of the downcast eyes that made her face seem warm and sensuous. She shook her head very slightly, and again a faint blush spread over her face.

They were words that came out of nothing, but they seemed to him somehow significant. He muttered them over again.

And I can't complain. After all, only women are able really to love.

From the way of Go the beauty of Japan and the Orient had fled. Everything had become science and regulation.

The winter moon becomes a companion, the heart of the priest, sunk in meditation upon religion and philosophy, there in the mountain hall, is engaged in a delicate interplay and exchange with the moon; and it is this of which the poet sings.

I wonder what the retirement age is in the novel business. The day you die.

Put your soul in the palm of my hand for me to look at, like a crystal jewel. I'll sketch it in words.